


so close to reaching that famous happy end

by angejolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, School Reunion, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:39:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angejolras/pseuds/angejolras
Summary: Éponine just wants a sliver of closure, the kind she’s never gotten before, just the tiniest bit—at this point,anythingwould be deemed acceptable. Thinking about it now, she realises they’ve always been some kind of open-ended question; unfinished, unanswered. Unresolved.As over him as she claims to be, Gabriel Enjolras will still always be there, forever etched into the back of her mind, forever a lingering ‘what-if’. More often than not, she catches herself wondering about him.There’s the tiniest hope somewhere inside her that maybe, just maybe, sometimes he wonders about her too.





	so close to reaching that famous happy end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/gifts).



> happy birthday saoirse!!! i had a lot of fun writing this fic, i hope you'll have a lot of fun reading it!!
> 
> fic prompt taken from [this list](https://bisexual-eponine.tumblr.com/post/164760309291/reunited-aus): “you’re famous and just got asked if you were ever in love this should be good– WAIT WHAT” au

Éponine still remembers every detail of how they went wrong.

She’s over it, for the most part—they’ve long since stopped speaking to each other, she hasn’t seen him since their high school graduation. There’s still that vague ache somewhere in her chestal region each time she sees him pop up on her television screen, but she firmly ignores that. It’s over. It’s done.

Sometimes she’d walk into the kitchen in the mornings, thinking bitterly of how he’s made quite a name for himself in the nine years since they graduated. Isn’t he wonderful? Just twenty-seven and already a Broadway heartthrob. From what she can tell, from what she remembers from the several drunken internet spirals at ungodly hours in the night she’s been on, Hollywood is seeking to bring him to a more mainstream audience, to thrust him even further into the spotlight. _Figures._

She is over it, though. She really is.

Even still, not a day goes by in which she doesn’t think about what could have been.

Éponine just wants a sliver of closure, the kind she’s never gotten before, just the tiniest bit—at this point, _anything_ would be deemed acceptable. Thinking about it now, she realises they’ve always been some kind of open-ended question; unfinished, unanswered. Unresolved.

As over him as she claims to be, Gabriel Enjolras will still always be there, forever etched into the back of her mind, forever a lingering ‘what-if’. More often than not, she catches herself wondering about him.

There’s the tiniest hope somewhere inside her that maybe, just maybe, sometimes he wonders about her too.

* * *

Éponine lies back on her bed, shadows twisting and rising along the pale green walls as the early morning sun begins to peek out from the horizon outside, headphones clamped tight over her ears. Cosette’s fretted time and time again about how she’s destroying her eardrums, blaring rock music at such loud volumes from her headphones, and maybe one of these days Éponine’ll take her up on her suggestion and finally stop.

Not today.

It’s a sleepy Sunday morning, the perfect time for dwelling on her thoughts, which always inevitably lead back to the painful memories. She can’t take it.

It’s another ten minutes of inner turmoil and blasting rock music before Grantaire comes to her rescue, barging into her room to plop himself down at the edge of the bed. “Morning, sunshine,” he greets dryly when she sits up, yanking the headphones off her head.

Éponine flashes him a tight-lipped little grin. “We need to go grocery shopping today.”

“I know.” Grantaire toys with the duvet, rolling the soft fabric between his fingers as he hums softly to himself.

They’ve been living together for a while now, just barely able to afford their SoHo apartment with the money the commissions Grantaire paints rakes in and Éponine’s salary as a child welfare social worker. He’s claimed the bigger bedroom of the two available; that’s fine by Éponine, he’s the one who has to pay more of the rent as a result. Their apartment doubles as an art studio for him, a good portion of what would be the rest of their living room having been transformed into a messy artist’s space, and so far, their arrangement isn’t half-bad.

It’s silent up until Grantaire speaks again. “What’s going on in that pretty, intelligent head of yours, Éponine, my love?”

Éponine shrugs. “Nothing much. Just devising a grocery list, I guess.”

“Ah.” Grantaire falls quiet again, until he asks, tentative, “You thinking about Enj?”

Wrong question.

He flinches at the death glare Éponine shoots his way, dark eyes on fire as a fiery red blush rises to her cheeks. “We don’t say the E-word in this household,” she snaps, and that’s that.

Well, it’s not, really—they may not say Enjolras’ name around the apartment, but sometimes he still comes across their TV screen, when they’ve got nothing else to watch and Éponine needs an excuse to be snarky about him to distract from the memories of the heartbreak he caused her back when they were eighteen and stupid. And as much as she hates to admit it, he really is a brilliant actor—she was forced to come to terms with that a year ago when he went and got himself nominated for a Tony.

Éponine breathes in, out, regaining her composure, cooling her head. “Sorry,” she mutters, looking down into her lap. “It’s just—it’s complicated.” It’s been nine years, but _still_.

Grantaire reaches out, pulls her into a hug, and she gladly lets herself be wrapped up in his arms, burying her face in his chest. “Isn’t everything else in life?” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “I know it’s hard, babe. But I’m here for you.”

Éponine looks up, scrunching up her face at him. “Gross.”

She laughs, a true, genuine laugh for the first time in what feels like a while now, when Grantaire flicks her in the forehead in retaliation and detaches himself from her to get up. “Well, I’m gonna go make some breakfast. Feel free to join me.”

Éponine crosses her legs, calling out as Grantaire exits the room, “I might take you up on that offer!”

* * *

“Whatcha painting?”

Éponine wanders into Grantaire’s cluttered art space, a little bag of beef jerky in her hand as she chews, approaching him. He’s sitting in front of an easel, smoking a joint as he stares at the canvas before him. Éponine learned a long time ago that he likes to paint while high; the results range from worthy of being put in the MoMA to highly questionable. The smell of weed wafts through the apartment as Grantaire takes another hit, offering the joint to Éponine.

As Éponine takes a small hit, Grantaire grabs some of her food, saying through a mouthful of jerky, “Gratuitous self-portrait.”

Éponine lets out a throaty laugh as she hands the joint back to him, looking at what he’s got so far. It’s a swirl of vivid colours, looking as if it’s the visual representation of a psychedelic trip, with Grantaire in the centre of it all, a little smirk on his face. It isn’t much yet, but it looks like it’s shaping up to be one of the better stuff he’s produced when high.

“Looks good so far,” she remarks, patting the top of his head and flattening his raven-black curls somewhat.

Grantaire grins up at her. “Why, thank you, Miss Éponine.”

Éponine rolls her eyes, laughing half-heartedly as she goes over to the window, staring down at the streets, people walking past. It’s seven o’clock in the night, the bright lights of the city nearly blinding her, and she thinks about how the shows on Broadway would be raising the curtain right around this moment. Of course it leads back to thoughts about Enjolras.

She shakes him out of her head. God, why can’t he stop coming back to haunt her?

He’s probably moved on with his life. Of course he has. He’s got to. He’s famous now, with a sizeable fangirl brigade that he’s garnered over the years due to his good looks, charming personality, a vocal range to make every other tenor out there insanely jealous, and charisma. He probably doesn’t have the time to think about his former high school sweetheart.

It’s been so long. Nine years, goddamn it. She should be over it by now.

Éponine sighs, huffy, jamming her fingers into her hair. Fuck this. She needs a drink.

* * *

It’s all still so clear in the back of her mind.

The time he first offered to tutor her, help her raise her grades. How somewhere along the way they developed feelings for each other. Finally working up the nerve to kiss him at a party their friends dragged them off to. The late-night conversations over the phone, spoken in hushed voices, fond whispers piercing the dead of the night. Giving themselves to each other completely for the first time on the night of junior prom. Remaining a steady couple throughout senior year, before everything went to shit.

They didn’t have some big fight, contrary to popular belief—in fact, they never really officially broke up, unless one can call a dispassionate conversation after graduation about the nature of what their relationship’s come to be a proper breakup. They just drifted apart as time went by in the months leading up to graduation, never able to figure out a way to communicate effectively, which ultimately led to their downfall. Their miscommunications led to fallout.

By the time she had really come to terms with just how much he came to mean to her, it had been too late.

He’d been the first of many things for her—not her first time having sex, though, that had been wasted on her good-for-nothing ex-boyfriend from freshman year of high school, Montparnasse. But Enjolras had been her first in many other ways. First time going to a Broadway show. First actual date to a school dance. First real heartbreak.

First love. Real, deep, true, know-it-for-sure-and-don’t-doubt-it-for-a-second love.

She thinks about him often. The one that got away.

No matter how much she dreams, she doubts that there’s any way to get him back.

He probably doesn’t even remember her.

* * *

They’re out on the fire escape, passing an enormous bottle of wine back and forth between them, and Éponine can already feel the alcohol beginning to take hold of her system as Grantaire sings softly to himself, gazing out at the lights of the city. It’s a clear night; no chance of rain anytime soon. The cool summer evening breeze tickles them as it gently blows past, making the hairs on the back of their necks stand up on end, and Éponine’s rather light-headed, what with the alcohol and also the text she and Grantaire both received a mere hour earlier from Julien Combeferre, informing them of their upcoming ten-year high school reunion to be held in a year or so.

So that’s going to be fun.

It’s strange how the high school memories are always most vivid when she’s drunk, at least in her own personal experience. Memories of Enjolras and herself fumbling in the dark on the night of their junior prom in his bed can’t stop running through her mind, much to her dismay. His confident hands touching her everywhere. Their ecstatic moans ringing out through the room. His heartfelt whispers of how perfect she was in every single way as they came down from their exhilarating high.

Half the time Éponine thinks she imagined it, but she could have sworn that as they were drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms afterwards, her naked body pressed against his, he had whispered to her, “I love you.”

“What’s on your mind, babe?” The sound of Grantaire’s voice quickly saves her from a train of thought that was shaping up to be depressing as fuck, and she looks up, a blank look on her face as she blinks at him.

She opens her mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a broken sob.

A look of alarm crosses Grantaire’s face when tears fill Éponine’s eyes, prompting him to reach out and pull her into a tight hug, no hesitation, zero questions asked. She buries her face in his chest, finally letting the tears fall after all these years of bottling it all up, her sobs muffled by his shirt, and he strokes her hair, resting his chin on the top of her head as she lets it all out, the pressure from repressing her feelings finally making her burst.

“I miss him so much, R,” she chokes out, words garbled by heavy sobs. “I can’t stop thinking about what could’ve been, if we weren’t fucking idiots about the whole thing. I think about him all the damn time, and he’s probably forgotten about me a long fucking time ago.”

“Hey, hey.” Grantaire gently strokes her hair, pressing a reassuring kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sure he didn’t forget about you.”

Éponine looks up at him, dark eyes red-rimmed, olive skin flushed, tears streaking her cheeks. “How the fuck would _you_ know about that?” she asks scathingly. “Of course he’s forgotten about me. I mean, it was bound to happen. He’s a big Broadway star now, and I’m just _me_ …” She goes quiet as Grantaire cups her face in his hands and wipes her tears away with his thumbs, brushing some of her hair out of her face in the process. “He can have anyone he wants now. He’s got all sorts of people falling at his feet, begging him to take them, especially since he came out publicly.” She laughs, derisive, shaking her head.

Grantaire stays silent, waiting for her next words, and Éponine looks up to meet his eyes, a feeble smile on her face. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “God, this is embarrassing. I’m drunk. I’m drunk and crying about my high school ex.”

Grantaire chuckles, kissing her forehead. “Hey, it happens to the best of us.”

Éponine nods faintly. “Yeah.”

It’s not like she hasn’t been in any relationships at all since breaking up with Enjolras at the end of their senior year—the longest relationship she’s had since then was when she had been with this girl Cosette set her up with on a blind date about four years ago, and that fling had lasted about a year and a half before they mutually decided that things weren’t going to work out.

“You think he’ll show up at the reunion?” Grantaire wonders aloud. Éponine would be lying if she said she hasn’t thought about that at least once since receiving that text from Combeferre.

Éponine snorts. “As if. He’s famous now. I’m sure he’s got better things to do.”

“Hey, you never know.” Grantaire boops Éponine’s nose, laughing when she wrinkles her nose at him. “I’m sure he’s still the same down-to-earth guy fucking obsessed with politics deep down. He’ll show up.” He absently twirls a lock of Éponine’s hair around his finger, musing, “Who knows? Maybe you’ll finally be able to get that closure you’ve been wanting for so long.”

Surprise overtakes Éponine. Grantaire is right. Maybe she will.

“So we’ll RSVP yes, then,” Éponine says, raising an eyebrow.

Grantaire throws his hands up into the air as if it’s obvious. “Uh, duh, of fucking course we will. I want to rub my _success_ in the faces of all those fuckers who doubted me.”

Éponine tosses her head back, letting out a loud laugh as she grabs the wine by the neck of the bottle and takes a swig.

* * *

“ _Fuck_ , it’s cold out there!” Éponine huffs as she stomps on the unfortunate welcome mat, shaking the snow off her coat, out of her hair, taking her coat and hat off to hang up by the door before kicking her boots off and taking off her layers as she goes, walking into the living room and shooting Grantaire a sour look as she tosses the groceries onto the kitchen counter. “Thanks a lot for helping, by the way,” she says sarcastically when all he does is return to his painting.

“Happy to help,” he calls out without missing a beat as Éponine leaves the groceries on the kitchen counter for him to put away later.

The space smells like weed; Grantaire’s evidently been smoking some again, to provide some artistic inspiration. Éponine inhales the fumes, relaxing somewhat once she does, and she goes to stand by the window, watching snow drift past, piling up on the pavements below. It’s nine o’clock, Éponine having decided to put off shopping for groceries until the last minute, resulting in a cold trek to and from the grocery store around the corner as a snowstorm chose that precise moment to hit.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “It’s the end of March.”

“Well, that’s New York for you, honey,” Grantaire tells her. Éponine rolls her eyes and laughs.

“Make me some hot chocolate,” she demands, going over to fall onto the couch as she turns on the TV, beginning to aimlessly flick through the channels. “It’s the least you can do!” After a pause, she adds, “With marshmallows!”

Grantaire rolls his eyes but does as he’s told anyway, getting up to go into the kitchen nearby as Éponine, unsatisfied, flips through the channels before something catches her eye.

It’s one of those late-night talk shows, and though that alone wouldn’t have been enough to spark her interest, that particular show just so happens to feature someone she was once _very_ familiar with.

Of course. Of fucking course Gabriel Enjolras has to show up on TV.

Her heart keeps missing beats as Grantaire brings her the hot chocolate he’s made for her, quick to take notice of the deer-in-headlights look on her face, shock written all over her. “What’s the matter?”

Éponine composes herself, shaking her head. “Nothing, it’s just…” She points at the TV screen. “Look.”

Grantaire’s gaze follows where her finger is pointing, jaw dropping open when he sees Enjolras there. “Holy fuck,” he breathes out, the speed at which he goes to sit down beside Éponine almost comical.

They watch in silence for the most part—Grantaire had been right when he said Enjolras is probably still the same down-to-earth, charismatic, if not occasionally intense guy he was back in high school. He’s calm, composed, almost regal, answering questions with ease. Éponine takes a sip of her hot chocolate, burning the roof of her mouth, but she can’t care less, gazing at his image on the screen rather forlornly.

As he laughs at something the host said, his face lights up with a crinkly-eyed smile, and fuck. Éponine sorely misses that smile.

 _“So congratulations on your new show_ Moulin Rouge! _"_ the host says to Enjolras, being met with a bright grateful smile on the golden-haired man’s part.

 _“Thank you!”_ he responds, smiling. He’s still sitting in that manner Éponine sees most men appearing on talk shows sitting in, but she can tell by the way his blue eyes light up that he’s excited.

 _“Wow, you’ve been so lucky,”_ the host says, laughing. _“Only twenty-eight, and you’ve taken Broadway by storm already. I heard that Hollywood’s planning on knocking down your door.”_

 _“They are,”_ Enjolras confirms, flashing the audience a sheepish smile as he takes a sip of the drink he’s been provided with. _“Theatre is my home, though. If they’ll have me, I’ll be there. Always.”_ After a brief pause, he continues, _“I really have just been really lucky, you know? It was all a matter of being in the right place at the right time, and that happened to be the case for me. In my junior year of college, some talent scouts came to see the show we put on at the end of the year, and one of them arranged for me to audition for the_ Miss Saigon _Broadway revival. I ended up being cast as the understudy for Chris, and I just went from there, I suppose.”_

The host of the show doesn’t even try masking his awe, something Éponine picks up on, and her eyes hardly ever leave the screen, even when Grantaire mutters beside her, “Sheesh, he’s so good at everything he does. It’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t,” Éponine agrees absently, taking another little sip of her hot chocolate.

 _“So tell us about_ Moulin Rouge! _,”_ the host says, resulting in loud cheers from the audience. _“This is a really big project for you, isn’t it?”_

Enjolras nods. _“Oh, it’s a very big project. I’m so grateful to get to be a part of such a lavish, beautiful production.”_

 _“So what’s it about?”_ the host questions, leaning forward towards Enjolras.

He smiles, and Éponine can tell just from the nature of that smile that he’s rather overwhelmed by the prospect of having to summarise the show for an audience without spoiling anything. _“Well, as we all know from the movie—which I absolutely love, it’s spectacular—at its core,_ Moulin Rouge! _is about love,”_ he explains, glancing back and forth between the audience and the host. _“We’ve put our own twists on the story, of course—we’ve made it its own show. It officially opens this Friday—I have a feeling audiences will love it.”_

 _“I’m sure they will,”_ the host says, sincere. _“It’s about love, as you said.”_

 _“Yes,”_ Enjolras affirms, nodding.

 _“Were_ you _ever in love?”_ the host asks, and the audience laughs and coos at the way Enjolras’ face flushes pink.

Éponine snorts, sitting up straighter, more than ready to be entertained. “Oh, _this_ should be good.”

It’s a while before Enjolras speaks again, after several moments of contemplation. _“I have been, actually,”_ he says at last, a flustered smile on his face. _“I was in love, once. Really, truly in love.”_

Grantaire nearly falls off the couch, he’s leaning forward so much.

 _“Oh?”_ The look on the host’s face can only be described as utter surprise, pleasantly taken aback by such a response as the audience cheers in encouragement. _“Who were they?”_

 _“I can’t say her name, I’m sorry,”_ Enjolras says apologetically. _“But I will say that she was my high school girlfriend, and God, I loved her so much.”_

Éponine promptly chokes on her marshmallows.

After some quick thinking on Grantaire’s part, Éponine’s swallowed the marshmallows as she stares at the TV screen, hardly able to breathe. What the fuck is Enjolras saying?

 _“We were a part of the same friend group,”_ Enjolras tells the host and the audience. _“At one point near the beginning of our junior year, I noticed how she was struggling with some of her classes, so I offered to tutor her, and at some point, we began to develop feelings for each other. I was too shy to act on them—I wasn’t the greatest at talking to people I liked back in high school—so she was the one to make the first move. She kissed me at a party, just before winter break that junior year, and just like that we were together for the rest of junior year and all through senior year.”_

Enjolras’ voice has taken on a significantly more melancholy tone as he tells the story, falling silent, so the host gently prompts, _“If it’s not too much, can I ask what happened?”_

Enjolras cracks a smile, half-hearted. _“We drifted apart in the months between hearing back from colleges and graduation,”_ he explains, and Éponine would be lying if she says she doesn’t see regret pooling in his blue eyes. _“We knew things were going to have to end, one way or another, but we never really talked about it, you know? We were eighteen and stupid, so we never really sat down to have a serious conversation about what was going to happen after graduation until it was too late.”_

The doleful way he tells the story garners him cries of sympathy from the audience; even the host seems to be blinking back some tears. Enjolras musters a smile, continuing, _“Our inability to communicate with each other led to us falling apart. I haven’t heard from her in almost ten years now, not since graduation. I’ll admit, I wonder about her often. More often than not, really. Sometimes I wonder if she wonders about me too.”_

Grantaire sneaks a sideways glance at Éponine, seeing how she’s frozen in place, tears pooling in her dark eyes, unable to tear her gaze away from the TV. “Oh, my God…”

 _“She was my first love,”_ Enjolras says, biting his lip. _“My only real love, I think. That’s not to say I didn’t love the people I’ve seriously dated besides her!”_ he clarifies, chuckling softly. _“I had a boyfriend for some time a couple of years ago, and I did love him. I just don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I loved her. I didn’t realise how much I loved her, how much she meant to me, until it was too late.”_

He pauses, mulling things over for a bit, before he amends, _“No,_ love _. Present tense. I still love her. I don’t think you ever stop loving the first person you’ve ever loved in such a way, really. If I could turn back time and make things right, I would do it in a heartbeat. I understand if she wouldn’t have me back—I wouldn’t blame her for it, honestly—but she at least deserves some closure. Things ended on a sour note between us, and if that wasn’t already bad enough, it was vague as well. We left things unresolved between us, and I’d do anything to make it right. She's my 'one that got away', so to speak.”_

The host looks sympathetic, staring at Enjolras as he comes to the end of his tale. _“You say you haven’t heard from her in almost ten years?”_

Enjolras nods in affirmation, biting his lip, a sheepish little smile on his face. _“No, I haven’t. But our ten-year high school reunion is coming up in a few months. I’ll definitely be going. I RSVP’d yes a long time ago. Maybe she’ll be there.”_ Another pause. _“I hope she will. Maybe I’ll have a chance to finally make things right. You know what they say.”_ Enjolras pauses once again before he quotes, _“‘If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, they never were.’”_

The audience sighs, clearly touched, and the host nods in understanding before turning to the camera to announce a commercial break. Grantaire finally has the sense to turn off the TV, turning towards Éponine, who’s still frozen in place. “Ep?” he asks softly, reaching out to take her hand. “You okay?”

“Oh, my God,” Éponine breathes out, turning to Grantaire. Tears are streaking her cheeks, her eyes red-rimmed, and she bites her lip in an attempt to keep her crying under control. She shoots Grantaire an accusing glare, asking, “Did you spike my hot chocolate?”

Immediately, he shakes his head in denial. “What? Of course I didn’t!”

His words only result in Éponine crying even harder, and without another word, he’s pulled her close, holding her in his arms as she cries her eyes out, her breathing erratic, a series of staccato hiccups as she weeps. Well, at least that’s cleared up—her tears are the result of Enjolras’ heartfelt words on national television alone. Goddamn it.

Now that she knows for sure he’ll be attending their high school reunion, how the fuck is she supposed to face him now?

* * *

“Ep? Éponine, babe, we have to go. C’mon, you don’t want to be late, do you?”

Éponine stands before her mirrored closet doors, biting her lip as she looks herself up and down, wondering if the outfit she’s picked is too understated. She’s clad in a crimson chiffon long-sleeved V-neck button-down blouse tucked into black high-waisted pants that hug her curves, deep brown hair tucked behind her ears, simple sterling silver hoop earrings dangling from her earlobes, with the black suede ankle boots on her feet completing the look quite nicely. She’s spent half an hour perfecting her eyeliner, subtle but still noticeable, lips painted cherry red and complementing her olive skin tone. She’s gone for a mostly ‘natural’ look with the makeup, just barely perceivable.

Grantaire knocks on her door yet again and calls out for her, jolting her out of her thoughts, so she steals one last look in the mirror at herself before sighing and picking up her phone, thinking that this is as good as it’s going to get. Tucking it into her back pocket, she goes to open her door, finding Grantaire waiting outside, and she loops her arm through his, mustering a grin up at him.

“You clean up nicely,” she wryly observes aloud, to which Grantaire barks out a laugh. She’s convinced him to wear a cinnamon-brown sweater layered over a pale blue button-up shirt, paired with navy jeans and forest-green Chucks, scruff neatly trimmed, and though he wasn’t successful in doing so, it looks like he at least attempted to comb back his disobedient black curls. Well, it’s good enough.

The sun is still out as they leave the apartment, it being only six-thirty in late May, and Éponine takes in the breeze, smiling to herself as they make their way to the subway. It’s a beautiful May day, birds flitting about with flowers in full bloom on whatever little soil there is in New York City, the skies painted in all shades of reds and oranges, fluffy white clouds scarce to be seen. Even still, she can’t help but feel nervous, her heart pounding out of her chest as they find themselves seats in a corner of a train car of the A train.

Grantaire notices how Éponine’s silent, her lips pressed tightly together in a straight line, and he takes her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Nervous?”

“Is it even possible for me to be anything but?” Éponine shoots back snippily, taking in a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just… fuck. Ten years.”

She doesn’t say it out loud, but they both know she’s thinking about how she’ll be seeing Enjolras again for the first time in ten years. One can’t blame her for being absolutely fucking terrified.

They finally get off in the neighbourhood their high school stands in, walking the few blocks from the station there, and they’re just approaching the gate when Éponine freezes in her tracks. She turns around, just about to bolt before Grantaire grabs her arm. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

He pulls her back towards him, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and bending down a bit to look her in the eye. “Look at me. Ep, baby, look at me.”

Éponine reluctantly meets his eye, brown staring into green, and Grantaire says, “Come on. It’s our high school reunion. We’re here to see friends we saw a couple of weeks ago and friends we haven’t seen in years. It’s going to be _fun_ , I promise you. And here’s your chance to finally get some closure from the guy you love.”

“I never said I loved him,” Éponine mutters, averting her gaze once again.

“Maybe not out loud, but point is, you do,” Grantaire points out. “You’ve missed him so much all these years, Ep. I know he means a lot to you. I know how much you still love him.”

Éponine presses her lips together, nodding slowly. Taking this as agreement from her, Grantaire straightens back up and puts his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Well, come on! The night’s still young. We’re going to have so much fun, I promise. Let’s go.”

They walk up to the school entrance, walking down those familiar hallways on the way to the gym, where their old classmate Christine and her friend Meg are handling check-in. She beams at them as she gets to her feet, blonde tresses flowing down her back, and she goes to give Éponine a hug. “So glad you could make it!” she says, blue eyes sparkling.

Éponine grins up at her. Christine’s established herself as one of the lead sopranos at the Metropolitan Opera, also having sung in various operas all around the world, and it’s amazing how she came back just to attend this itty-bitty little shindig. Maybe Éponine misjudged her back in high school when she used to think she was just a somewhat stuck-up girl who always wound up landing the lead female role in the school musicals.

She and Grantaire are handed their name-tags by Meg, and the two of them pin them onto their shirts as they proceed into the gym, finding that there’s already a decent crowd gathering. Éponine searches the multitudes for a familiar face, any familiar face, soon landing on Cosette and Marius standing by the dessert table.

“Cosette!” Éponine jogs up to the small blonde, embracing her and grinning when Cosette hugs her back. The blonde is laughing by the time she draws back, a smile that practically radiates sunshine looking as if it’ll split her face in half, and Grantaire’s already engaged in conversation with Marius, asking him incessantly about his and Cosette’s little girl, Emilie, who’s two now.

“You look amazing!” Cosette compliments, looking Éponine up and down. The latter’s got around three inches on the former when barefoot, five in the ankle boots she’s wearing now.

“So do you!” Éponine replies—Cosette looks incredible in her long-sleeved white floral-print maxi dress, enormous pink roses and green leaves printed against the white fabric. “How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in, like, a month.”

“Oh, the usual,” Cosette says airily, tossing some blonde hair over her shoulder. “Emilie’s a handful, but I’m loving every minute of being a mom.”

Éponine can’t help but eye the engagement ring and wedding band on Cosette’s left hand a little enviously—she and Marius had been one of those couples who stayed together after graduation, eventually marrying during their junior year of college, at the tender age of twenty. She can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, she and Enjolras could have had that if they hadn’t been complete idiots.

They stay there by the desserts for a bit, just chatting and catching up on each other’s lives, and the next half hour is a bit of a blur as Éponine is met with the likes of Auguste Joly, Musichetta Chevalier, Bossuet de Meaux, and Joseph Bahorel. All their old friend group back in one place.

She and Grantaire are chilling out by the open bar when it happens. They’re taking sips of champagne, laughing together at the pictures they’re showing on the slideshow of pictures from their high school years, when Grantaire’s eyes wander and practically bug out of his head. It’s all he can do not to drop his champagne flute.

“What happened? What are you looking at?” Éponine turns around to see whatever it is Grantaire’s currently gawking at, and she stops breathing.

Standing there at the gym entrance, looking rather lost, is Gabriel Enjolras.

He’s even more handsome than Éponine remembers him to be; she hadn’t thought that was even possible. He’s clad in a long-sleeved burgundy-red button-up shirt tucked into black dress pants that are almost definitely tailored to fit him perfectly, top three buttons of his shirt undone in classic Enjolras fashion, and he looks so much older, more mature—jaw a little more chiselled, that dimple in his chin more defined, golden curls just a tad bit longer and still just as perfect as she remembers them to be, taller and broader than he’d been at eighteen. A perfect marble statue come to life.

She’s almost hoping he doesn’t notice her, about to turn and hide before Grantaire puts a hand on her arm, silently telling her to stay put. Éponine watches as Combeferre comes up to Enjolras, rescuing him from his daze, and leads him around the gym, meeting with people they haven’t seen in a long time, and she’s seriously considering faking sick and running off like the coward she is when Enjolras finally catches her eye from across the room.

The two of them lock eyes, Éponine seeing how Enjolras’ blue eyes widen at the sight of her, a pink blush rising to his cheeks. He turns to Combeferre, exchanges a few words with him, before he begins to walk up to the bar, where Éponine stands frozen. In what feels like the blink of an eye, they’re standing face to face, Éponine staring up at Enjolras through wide brown eyes, praying desperately that her face doesn’t betray just how terrified she is.

“Hey,” she squeaks out, fumbling around before she manages to place her champagne flute back on the bar counter without spilling it.

Try as he might, Enjolras can’t keep the corners of his mouth from turning up in the smallest of smiles, rather amazed as he breathes in reply, “Hey.”

* * *

As Enjolras orders a drink, neither of them are quite willing to address the sudden tension in the air, Grantaire standing there awkwardly by Éponine as he’s forced to endure the torture of bearing witness to it all. It’s only when he sees Jehan Prouvaire enter the gym that he finally excuses himself, despite Éponine’s silent pleading looks as he leaves her and Enjolras alone together.

Éponine shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably as Enjolras clicks his tongue, staring down at his black leather Oxfords before he finally works up the nerve to initiate conversation, looking back up. “So how have you been?”

His voice is even softer, more vulnerable than Éponine ever remembers it being, and she finally looks him in the eye and musters a little smile. “Good. I’ve been good.”

“Ah.” Enjolras bites his lip. “Good. That’s good.”

“Yeah. Good.”

They fall silent again, an uncomfortable tension falling between them once more. After a while, Éponine laughs a little self-deprecatingly.

“Damn, this is awkward, isn’t it?” she remarks.

Enjolras can’t help but laugh as well, nodding. She’s always been able to do that for him. Diffuse the tension. “Just a bit, yes.” He’s quiet for a little while before he comments softly, “It never used to be awkward between us.”

“Yeah, well.” Éponine picks up her champagne flute and downs the rest of it in one gulp before she places it back on the bar counter. “We’ve never broken up before.”

And there it is—she’s finally said it. The one topic they’ve been skirting around, avoiding. Maybe now is the time to finally say everything they’d never said before.

Enjolras swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Éponine gives him a half-hearted little grin. “It’s okay. I saw that one interview you did, on that late-night talk show. Where you got asked if you’ve ever been in love.”

Enjolras’ mouth falls open just slightly, shocked and, quite frankly, rather embarrassed that she’d seen that. Maybe being so open about his feelings on national television had been a mistake. The occasional article speculating about who his mysterious lost love might be still pops up on his social media feeds even after a few months have passed. “You—you did?” he manages to stammer out. God, let the earth open up and swallow him whole right this moment.

Éponine smiles, lips pressed together. “Yeah, I did.” She shifts from foot to foot once again, murmuring, “I’ve heard about how well you’re doing. It’s all really impressive. Congrats on that Tony nomination.”

Enjolras’ cheeks burn. “Thank you.”

Now’s as good as a time as any other to finally tell her how she’s forever been in the back of his mind for the past ten years, how his biggest regret to this day is letting her go, how he’s ready to fall to his knees at her feet and beg her for forgiveness. Not that he deserves any.

He just wants to give her closure in person, not have her hear it through some talk show he was on. He’s just about to tell her as much when the DJ, Henry, announces into a microphone that the dance floor’s opened, beginning to play the first song of the evening.

Éponine turns to Enjolras, impulse getting the better of her as she offers, “Want to dance?”

Enjolras can’t help but stare. “Really?”

Éponine shrugs. “Sure, why not? Might make things less awkward between us.”

That’s how they find themselves dancing together, the music ranging from bouncy pop songs to slow love ballads. As they’re jumping along to “Shut Up and Dance”, they’re oblivious to how Grantaire bounds up to Henry to request a song to put on next. Typical meddler.

The two of them stop in their tracks when the song comes to an end and “So Close” comes on. Éponine looks up to meet Enjolras’ eye.

“This was our song,” she murmurs, a nostalgic smile on her face.

Enjolras nods, hesitating for a moment before he holds out his hand to her. “Shall we?”

Éponine cracks a little grin and takes his hand, and he pulls her into his arms, holding her close as they sway back and forth on the dance floor. The lyrics hit closer to home than they ever have before now, bittersweet, and Éponine’s heart aches at all the memories that come rushing back; the music echoes throughout the gym as Enjolras twirls Éponine around before drawing her back in, Jon McLaughlin crooning in their ears.

_“A life goes by_

_Romantic dreams must die, so I bid mine goodbye and never knew so close was waiting_

_Waiting here with you_

_And now forever I know_

_All that I wanted_

_To hold you so close…”_

As the song repeats its refrain for the final time, Éponine’s head is resting on Enjolras’ chest and he’s holding her close, a vaguely melancholy look on his face as they sway together to the gentle music. For a moment, it’s just the two of them. Just like how it used to feel like.

When the song comes to an end, Taylor Swift quickly replacing, Éponine looks up at him and manages a smile. “Want to get out of here?”

She doesn’t have to ask twice.

They manage to sneak out of the gym almost entirely unnoticed, if not for Grantaire’s eagle eyes.

He smirks as he watches them leave, turning to Jehan and murmuring, “Ten years really is too long, isn’t it?”

Jehan nods, sighing. “Yeah. It really is.”

* * *

Éponine and Enjolras wander those familiar halls, coming across all their favourite old hideaways, seemingly on an aimless stroll through the school building before they subconsciously find their way to the auditorium. When Enjolras reaches out to grab the door handle, they find that it’s unlocked.

It isn’t long before they’re sitting at the edge of the stage after having found the switch for the auditorium lights, legs dangling off the stage. Éponine sighs as she leans back, palms planted firmly on the stage behind her. “We used to spend time here together,” she reminisces out loud, smiling fondly to herself. “We’d hang around after your rehearsals ended and just sit and talk.”

Enjolras nods. “Yes, I remember. Those used to be the highlights of my week.”

Éponine laughs softly beside him. “How’s life as a big Broadway star treating you now?”

Enjolras shrugs, elbows resting on his knees. “It’s alright. I do enjoy doing what I love for a living. The fans can be a little too much, though.”

Éponine looks down into her lap, smiling to herself as she lets out a little laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”

“What do you do now?” Enjolras asks, looking up and turning his head to look at her.

She still stares off into space as she replies absently, “Child welfare social worker. The pay isn’t bad. I like the kids I work with. They remind me of me,” she adds as an afterthought.

“Ah.”

They fall silent yet again, each of them wondering what the hell to say next. After a while, Enjolras speaks again.

“You mentioned how you saw that talk show I was on some time ago?” he asks, looking at her.

Éponine nods her head yes. “Yeah. It was…” She hesitates, wondering what to say next. At last, she says, “It was really sweet, what you said.”

A fierce blush rises to Enjolras’ cheeks at her words. “I’m so sorry, ’Ponine,” he murmurs.

Éponine’s breath catches in her throat. She hasn’t heard that nickname in a long time.

She takes his hand now, lacing her fingers through his and giving his hand a little squeeze. “When did we let everything go so wrong?” she wonders out loud, shaking her head. She finally looks up, turning her head to meet his eyes, and to his dismay, her dark eyes have gone glassy. “I’m sorry too, Gabriel.”

“Letting you go was the biggest mistake of my life,” he tells her, his tone of voice having taken a more desperate turn, almost frantic, as if he’s trying to get everything out before she can refuse him. “’Ponine, I’m so sorry that we never talked about it. I was so scared of losing you after we graduated… I didn’t want to speed up the process by talking about it. I was an idiot, and I refused to come to terms with the reality.” He laughs rather bitterly then, muttering, “Looks like me not talking about it ended up making no difference. Either way, I would have lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Éponine contradicts, trying and failing miserably to keep her voice from cracking. “Gabriel, I’ve thought about you all these years, for so long… I kept wondering what I did, what happened between us.” She laughs derisively. “God, we really were idiots, weren’t we?” A single tear slides down her cheek, and instinctively, Enjolras reaches up to wipe it away. Ten years, and he still does that out of pure instinct.

“I’m so sorry, ’Ponine,” he says again, regret evident in every syllable as tears begin to pool in his blue eyes, those blue eyes she used to get lost in. “Can you forgive me?”

How the fuck is she supposed to answer _that_ question? So she does the next best thing.

She lets go of his hand to reach up and grab his face and she kisses him.

Of all the things Enjolras was expecting, this is not one of them, and it takes him a while to register before he kisses her back, passionate, yearning, ten years’ worth of unresolved tension and missed opportunities and the horrible sting of regret poured into a single kiss, and Éponine moves to wrap her arms around his neck, moving closer, like she can’t stand to let him go. Her face is wet, Enjolras notices, from the tears, and he kisses her even harder, wishing they could turn back the clock and set things right. It’s mad, passionate, desperate, years and years of heartache spilling out; he pulls her close, arms wrapped around her as he pulls her against him, never seeming to get close enough. It’s a plea for forgiveness wrapped up in one kiss, and they memorise every inch of each other, the kiss wild, frantic, urgent, for fear that this might be their last. They’re breathless by the time they break apart, a good amount of Éponine’s lipstick having rubbed off on Enjolras’ lips.

He reaches up to cup her face in his hands, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. An apology.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks again. His voice is soft. Vulnerable.

Éponine nods, albeit slowly. The smallest bit of light begins to creep into Enjolras’ eyes again.

“Will you take me back?” he asks. “Try again? Even if it’s not now, then someday?”

The look on his face makes it clear that the rest of his life hinges on her response, and Éponine bites her lip. He’s confessed on national television to still loving her, that he’s never stopped loving her, and as much as she’s tried to keep from admitting to herself, she’s never stopped loving him either. She’s still terrified, though; starting over with him would mean risking another goodbye, and she doubts she’d be able to handle that. She barely got through the first time around.

As she looks at him now, blue eyes pleading, golden hair in disarray from her running her fingers through his hair earlier in their passionate embrace, she realises that it doesn’t matter.

When it comes to him, any risk is a risk she’s willing to take.

She swings her legs up onto the stage, tucking them underneath her as she scoots closer to him, cupping his face in her hands. Leaning in, she presses her lips to his again, this time tender, gentle, like they have all the time in the world. Enjolras readily kisses her back, reaching up to lightly trail his hand up and down her spine.

They break apart for air, and Enjolras feels like he’s finally learned how to breathe again. Éponine leans in to press her forehead against his, letting out a long-winded sigh. “How about we take this one day at a time?” she suggests softly.

Enjolras smiles, the first real genuine smile he’s given that night. She’s giving him another chance. God, that’s more than enough for now.

“I would love that.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think!! you can always hit me up on tumblr [@bisexual-eponine](https://bisexual-eponine.tumblr.com/)


End file.
